


Dried Flowers

by poptartypops



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:14:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poptartypops/pseuds/poptartypops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dragon Age kink meme fill!<br/>Fenris shuffled uncomfortably, “There are no flowers in winter.  Those are the only once I could find in the city.  One for each.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dried Flowers

“Don’t even think of going to the Hanged Man tonight,” Anders glared at him, his mouth fixed in a straight line as he pointedly scolded Hawke like a child. “Stay here, do you hear me? There's nothing to miss out on anyway, it’s just the same rat spit brandy.”

“Hold you horses Anders, I don’t think I can go anywhere with this even if I wanted to,” Hawke pointed at his leg. It was wrapped in bandages and sandwiched between two pieces of wood.

Ander’s glare grew harder, “If you'd been thinking, your leg wouldn't have ended up like that. What in Andraste's name were you thinking?" Ander's voice grew louder with each word, "Galavanting outside the city with your _already_ injured leg."

“You really, really can’t just kiss it better?” Hawke joked, his lips pouting.

“You heal it yourself if you want, I’ve wasted enough mana on you this week,” Anders huffed, “Anyway, I left some salves with Orana. I’ve got to go back to the clinic. Stay. Put. I hope this teaches you a lesson.” 

Hawke rolled his eyes, “Whatever you say milord.” He bit back any other quick witted banter that threatened to roll of his lips - if only so the healer would indulge him a conversation for a few more minutes. 

“Should I ask Varric to drop by? Or maybe Isabella?” Anders quietly offered before he left Hawke’s room, “I’d stay but there are a lot of people - "

“Don’t even think it,” Hawke grinned at him, “I’m perfectly content here, alone this eve of Satinalia. I’ll stare out my window, into the stars and revel in the wonders of nature.” 

Anders gave him a weak smile, “Alright… just send word if you need me.” 

Hawke nodded in affirmation before turning his head to stare out the window. There were no stars or sky to speak of - just the adjacent window of some nobleman and vine wrapped brick walls that greeted his sight. Hawke sighed to himself and shifted his leg to a more comfortable position. His encounted with the Qunari two days ago had left him with a wound at his side and a broken leg. He had downed so many bottles of elfroot (thanks to ever ready Aveline) that his stomach felt bloated and hurt. He insisted that it wasn’t necessary to bother the healer then (he regretted this very much now) and after what felt like hours of convincing, Isabella, Varric and even Aveline relented. 

He made it back to his mansion in one piece, only with a slight limp. Orana greeted him like a mother hen when she saw him, her hands seemed to be everywhere at once - gently pushing him down on the couch, pressing several poultices into his wounds and wrapping them in fresh bandages.

All in all, he had felt good about that day. Work well done, a few scratches that made him feel alive and loving friends that fussed over him.

It wasn’t until he was in bed that a sudden thumping anxiousness gnawed at him. 

He found himself wandering alone through the forest paths near Sundermount the next day. 

Anders had been right - he hadn’t been thinking at all. 

Hawke had been hooked by an impulse. He wanted frost flowers. The thought of the delicate white, almost transperent petals clawed at his thought like demons to mages. They only grew in dense forests during the winter. No one in the Hightown market had been selling them, and so Hawke decided to set out for them himself. For a moment he hesitated, the frost blooms were endemic to Ferelden, the chances that they would be blooming so far away was - 

\- they were Bethany’s favorite flowers. 

Every winter, their home would be filled with the tiny glass-like flowers. The dinning table, the kitchen, father’s desk, mother’s dressing and even Carver’s bookcase would be adorned with them. Small, delicate but bright and beautiful - everything his baby sister was.

Thoughts about Bethany muddled his mind as he made his way to Sundermount. It was odd, how as he trudged through the snow covered paths outside the city - with everything so white and silent - he almost expected a small black haired girl jumping out of the thick snow, gleefully laughing before running to chase after her twin brother. Bethany and Carver would return home, shaking with cold, their cheeks red and their noses numb. Mother would have cups of hot milk ready for them and Father would be tending to the fireplace, throwing in the wood Garrett had chopped early that morning.

Hawke shivered under his fur-lined cloak at the thought of a warm fire. There was a small part of him that urged to return to the city - return to reality. But with the pain on his side and the cold numbing his cheeks, he realized there was nothing that could stop him - at this very moment - to chase after a dream.

_If only for a moment._

_  
_

“How could you be so stupid?”

Hawke woke that morning (or afternoon, he wasn’t sure) to Fenris screaming lividly at him.  His hands smoothed the sheets beneath him and it registered that he was back in his home, in his bed.  “What…” he cleared his throat, trying to rid the dryness that stopped the words from coming.  “Why are you here?” he eventually croaked out.

“You, ungrateful arse,” Fenris punctuated each word with jabbing his finger in Hawke’s direction, “You get yourself hurt because you chose to let Isabela play warrior against Qunaris instead of asking me, then refusing to go the abomination for aid because you’re too thick-headed,” he growled angrily, stamping his words with curses in another language, “And Maker save your ungrateful arse because then you decide taking a nap in the snow would be a terrific idea.” 

“Clearly,” he mumbled in response, not finding it in himself to concentrate on Fenris’ words.  It took more than a few moments more before Hawke remembered - the flowers, the snow, the pain on his side, blood. 

“You could have died.”

_Not the first time_ , Hawke bit the inside of his cheek and turned his head to warily eye the elf.“Thank you then, for…” - saving me, the words stuck in his throat, he couldn’t say those words - not to Fenris - “bringing me back.”He cleared his throat again.

Fenris glared at him again, a new bout of frustration washing over him.  “It was a trying thing to do,” he started pacing, “You looked so fucking stupid lying there it was almost too tempting to kick snow over you.” His anger made his green eyes bright and beautiful that all Hawke wanted was to pull him closer and close Fenris’ lips with his. 

“Maybe death would teach you a lesson.” 

“Maybe,” Hawke agreed dryly, “If you thought so strongly maybe you should have given death a hand at that.”  He knew Fenris hadn’t meant what he said, but the biting retort left his lips before he had time to think it through.

A flicker of pain crossed the elf’s face and Hawke felt his mouth grow bitter.Fenris looked as if he had slapped him, before he schooled his features.“You’re impossible.  You think too little of your own life, too little of the people you’ll leave behind unprotected because your own stupidity.”  

A bark of laughter bubbled out of Hawke.  The anxious burning was back in his chest.  It made him angry, made him want to claw something bloody.  “Who do you think I have left to protect, Fenris?” Hawke said dryly, a mocking smile curling his lips, “To call my own?” his eyes drifted for a mere second to the red band around Fenris’ wrist.  But the elf didn’t miss his look.  Fenris shifted uncomfortably, he moved his right wrist just a fraction closer to his body, as if wanting to hide the favor from Hawke. 

“Hawke I - "

And that was when Anders came in.

Hawke looked over the elf and to the healer, “Anders,” he greeted the frowning mage with exaggerated glee, “I’m glad you’re here.” 

Fenris gave a frustrated growl, then stalked out of the room.

And now he was all alone again, staring at the vine covered brick wall of his neighbor’s house.  His thoughts drifted back to his exchange with Fenris barely half an hour ago. 

 

  _Who do I have to call my own?_

_  
_

He felt a painful sort of triumph, with the way Fenris looked at him - as if apologetic.  He had been meaning to hurt the elf with his words, to intentionally drive a wedge between their recovering friendship because he couldn’t seem to overcome the hurt he felt when Fenris left that fateful night. 

But now there was nothing more he wanted to do but run to the dilapidated mansion and beg the elf for forgiveness.  Now Hawke couldn’t find confidence to console himself that his friendship with the elf still stood - no matter how shaky. 

“Hawke.”

The sound of his name was familiar from those lips.He turned his eyes away from the window and to the lanky figure leaning against the doorframe.“You’re still here,” surprise colored his voice.  


“I’m still here,” Fenris repeated dully, “Were you expecting someone else?”

Hawke snorted, “A ghost, or two.  But not you.”

Fenris worried his lower lip for a moment, the implications of him being here clear to both of them as murky water.  Whatever anger he had a while ago had simmered and was tucked away.  “Why did you go to the mountains alone?”

“Would you have approved of it if I brought someone?”

“Maybe if you told someone, they’d have the mind to stop you.” 

“I didn’t want to be stopped.”

“No one can stop you.”

Hawke stared at Fenris.  Not with hidden hurt, not with annoyance.  But just stared.  Taking in the warm tone of Fenris’ skin, the slight glow of lyrium that hummed beneath.  His green eyes were wide, staring back.  His posture was tense, always expecting a battle. 

“No,” Hawke finally spoke again, “I can’t be stopped.” He tipped his head to one side.  They always talked like this, skipping around the bush with vague sentences with too many undertones.  “But I’ll give up, when things are futile, I’ll give up.”

Fenris’ mouth worked.  He swallowed the lump that formed on his throat, “Is this you giving up then?” 

Hawke wanted to laugh at the irony of the situation. He couldn’t decide if Fenris was talking about the earlier events or something closer to heart.“I wanted to look for flowers,” he finally explained, opening a locked portion of his heart.He rolled his shoulders, as if to dispel a weight over them.“I wanted to remember…” he paused, looking away from Fenris and out the window once again.He didn’t want to see the elf’s expression, didn’t need to want to be comforted, "...to remember my past.”  

“Your family… the weather, reminds you of Ferelden. You’ve told me before.” 

A wry smile curled Hawke’s lips, “I did, didn’t I? That was all there is to it - little old me being homesick.”

Fenris curled his hands into fists and the tips of his gauntlets dug into his palm.  “Don’t be stupid.”

“You’re right.”

Fenris had meant that Hawke didn’t need to underplay his hurts.  Not around him, not when he wanted so badly to… do _something_ for him.  It was obvious the rogue was not being himself.  Fenris knew he brought this distance between them on to himself.  He couldn’t be the one to comfort Hawke, not when there was so much damage in himself he needed to fix first. 

Fenris wordlessly walked  towards Hawke’s bed.  The dark haired man insisted on averting his gaze, and Fenris ignored that - this was the only time he could gaze at the rogue with all the wanting and desire that coiled around his being.  Fenris pushed down the surge of protectiveness that welled his chest.  It wasn’t his place anymore - yet - to be allowed to love Hawke so much. 

“Here,” he pressed his fingers againsts Hawke, dropping three mangled flowers in Hawke’s palm. 

Hawke finally raised his eyes to Fenris’, his gaze questioning. 

“These were the only flowers I could find in the city.”

The three small light purple flowers laid lifeless in Hawke’s palm.  The petals were already slightly browned.  “What are these for?”

Fenris shuffled uncomfortably, “There are no flowers in winter.  Those are the only once I could find in the city.  One for each.”

 _One for each - Mother, Bethany, Carver._  

Hawke’s breath hitched in his throat and he gave out a strangled sound as he clutched the lifeless flowers to his chest.“Fenris, stay.” The words were whispered, tight and strained against the emotions that wrought Hawke’s body.  


Fenris curled a hand around one of Hawke’s wrist, “Until you sleep.”            

**Author's Note:**

> Original Prompt:  
> It's the first Holiday season in Kirkwall after the death of Leandra and Fenris' parting with Hawke. If you're romancing Fenris, he continues to assert he's there for Hawke while wearing Hawke's favors. So he obviously still cares a great deal, he's just not Hawke's lover at the moment (due largely to his head being up his arse).
> 
> For this prompt I want a M!Hawke who is stuck at home during the Winter Holiday season because he's either sick, or injured. (how sick or injured is up to A!A) The point is he can't get out to socialize, or have holiday fun, and he's lonely. No parties at the Hanged Man, or whatever else Hawke traditionally does at winter Holiday seasons in Kirkwall.
> 
> He misses his mother, misses Fenris and isn't fit to sublimate the loneliness with a good old butt kicking adventure (or drinking with Varric or much of anything else). And not feeling well just makes matters worse.
> 
> He's pulling the standard, Hawke "stiff upper lip" bit. But he really feels very wretched. And Fenris shows up, perhaps unsure of how best to go about anything, considering the circumstances. But he wants to be there for Hawke. Just to let him know that he really does care. That Hawke isn't really alone, even though Fenris can't be *with* him at the moment.
> 
> A little sweetness, a little sadness, and anything else you can throw in. Leave me feeling hopeful but maybe bittersweet.


End file.
